Wounded animals
by irnan
Summary: Dean doesn't understand why Sam can't understand that spirits like Molly are dangerous. Always. Whether they know they're dead or not. End of discussion. - coda to "Roadkill"


_Do I really have to say this every single time? Fine. __I don't own them. Happy now?_

**Wounded animals**

"Why did you act like that around her?"

Sam's question breaks the silence in the Impala like a stone shattering glass. Since Molly… stepped into the light, you've both barely spoken, lost in your own thoughts, musing on all the questions she'd brought up. Not that it's the first time either of you have wondered about death and what comes after, how can you not, in this line of work, but after Dad, and what with your recent encounter with the angelic Father Gregory, these questions are closer to the surface than ever before.

You're not quite sure what Sam means by his query, but the look on his face suggests a serious conversation is hurtling towards you with the speed of an out-of-control freight train, and the impact will likely be similar too. It pisses you off; you're tired, and cold, and sick to death of thinking about this all the time (no pun intended) and besides, you've just changed the tape to _Zeppelin III_ and doesn't he know after twenty-three years that _Immigrant Song_ is one of your favourites?

Course he does. But when Sam wants answers, he wants them _now_, dammit. Spoiled brat.

The thought occurs that you've only got yourself to blame for that, but you ignore that mental red herring and turn the music off with a frustrated sigh.

"Like what?" Real eloquent, dude. Now he's sure to leave you alone. Oddly enough, his tone, which has so often been judgmental these last few months, is merely curious.

"Like you couldn't decide whether you hated her or wanted to run away from her."

Run away? _Run away?_ Why you little – Dean Winchester _never _runs– damn. Now he's caught you, and he knows it. There's no way you're getting off the tracks now before the freight train arrives. Still, one last jump up on the embankment…

"I did not want to run away from her!"

Sam grins, amused at the little-boy indignation in your voice, but doesn't say anything.

You fall off the embankment back onto the tracks with a silent groan.

"She was a ghost, Sam! A spirit! One of those evil things we've spent our lives hunting, remember? Say the wrong thing to her and we would have been the ones looking like we'd lost an argument with a lawnmower."

Sam's amused again, you can tell, but he won't admit it.

"She didn't even know she was dead, Dean!"

Ah, the exasperated-little-brother voice. How well you know its dulcet tones.

"So? Even more dangerous if she can't control the freaky ghost powers."

"Not all the spirits we're going to meet want to hurt people," Sam replies, and damn, he's being reasonable. Irritated Sam you can deal with, very well in fact, since you basically created him, but Reasonable Sam always makes you wonder uncomfortably if maybe you _are_ the one in the wrong.

Impossible.

"No, the rest just want their murderers on death row as fast as possible. No vengeance involved at all." Your voice drips with sarcasm. You can almost hear the splatter as it hits the floor.

Sammy scowls. Ha! Round one to you.

"You know what I mean," he persists. "Most of them, the ones like Molly, they're not a threat, they're not dangerous. They're confused and frightened, and they need almost as much help as the living, sometimes."

Something stirs in your memory, then; a conversation with a girl? Something about being stuck? Going mad because of it… but then it slips away from you again, and you can't reach it.

Sam's talking again.

"Remember Lawrence? Remember Mom?"

Mom.

The fire that surrounded her, the echo in her voice, the jerking movements as she turned away from you to face the thing that threatened her sons…

Mom, a ghost. A spirit.

Your breath shortens and your hands tighten on the steering wheel as the terrible thought rises in you that _had Sam not shouted when he did, you would have shot her_. Shot Mom, driven her away with the rock salt loaded in your favourite shotgun. No matter how much it hurt, how much it shook you, to see her again, you wouldn't trade it for the world. That memory is one of your most precious these days, those few short seconds she stood in front of you meaning more to you than you will ever be able to admit, especially after Dad's abandonment. The smile she wore, the proud look in her eyes, the love in her voice as she spoke your name…

You want to yell at Sam, "that's different!" but even you know that it's not at all. Mom was a ghost. A spirit. One of those evil things you've spent your life hunting. Mom saved you. She destroyed herself to protect you both.

You sigh, loudly, shoulders slumping, hands loosening their death-grip on the steering wheel. You can't say it out loud, it hurts too much, but Sam understands.

"Want me to rewind the tape?" he asks. A peace offering, an apology, an I-didn't-mean-to-hurt-you-by-bringing-that-up. You just nod, throat too tight to speak right now.

Months later, you'll remember that conversation. You'll be standing in an abandoned graveyard when you do, over the body of your most hated, lifelong enemy with your dead father's hand as warm and heavy on your shoulder as it was in life, and all your doubts and insecurities and fears will be gone. He's smiling at you, proud and grateful and loving, as he never did, as he never could, in life, and he looks like Daddy. Not Dad, the man who taught you to fire a shotgun and dig a grave and melt silver into bullets and so many other things as well, but _Daddy_, who took you to the park on Saturdays, and played catch with you, and taught you to tie your shoelaces, and snuck you cookies after dinner when Mom wasn't looking.

Dad's a ghost. A spirit. One of those evil things you've spent your life hunting. Dad's just saved you; he's crawled out of Hell itself to save you.

Maybe Sam's right about this one. Impossible as it is.


End file.
